


What we deserve

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Bottom Surgery, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Hook-Ups, Emotional Constipation, FTM, First Time, Gordlock - Freeform, Gotham is for lovers, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hangover, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, PI Jim Gordon, Phalloplasty, Porn with Feelings, Protective Harvey, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, bottom Harvey Bullock, confident trans character, the angst is largely from Jim, top Jim Gordon, trans Harvey Bullock, you're an animal Bullock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: "“Harvey… what are we? Are we friends?” His hand has somehow found its way to Harvey’s waist, resting limp and too-heavy against the steady rise and fall of Harvey’s belly. It’s like Harvey hasn’t even noticed. That’s how casually physical they are with one another..."Angst, a very drunken hook-up, misunderstandings, misunderstandings cleared up, some very long overdue sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW – one brief GCPD banter ‘joke’ about priests and choirboys.

It’s a strange feeling, entering the station these days. Like coming home to a place he’s no longer welcome. Eyes follow him, even more so than before – maybe it’s because he stands out, without his suit and badge, without even a uniform. Maybe not. The weight of mistrust somehow has a different texture to it, now, but it’s still there, prickling at the back of Jim’s neck, and all he can do is try to ignore it and try to avoid running into Barnes as best he can. Push it down, repress it: he’s so practised at that it almost doesn’t register what he’s doing to himself.

Harvey’s not at his desk. He finds him in the archive, getting hassled by Chandler.

"Yeah, good luck tracking down any dirt on me, bub. Ain't nobody in this precinct a good enough detective for that challenge, never mind your shiftless ass."

“Sounds serious.” Jim raises his eyebrows at Harvey as he turns. The grin that breaks out on Harvey’s face is the most pleased anyone’s been to see him in… well, since he last saw Harvey, a couple weeks ago.

“Jim!” Jim submits to a hug, trying to hide how pleased he is. “Tell Chandler here that there’s no way he’s tracking down any kid photos of me.”

“No sense of humour.” Chandler rolls his eyes. “Everyone gets a photo on the notice board for their birthday.”

“Yeah, dream on.” Harvey turns back to Jim. “You come to wish me many happy returns?”

Jim clears his throat. He hadn’t, had forgot entirely that it’s – apparently – Harvey’s birthday, but luck’s handed him an easy save and he grins up at him. “Not _just_ that.”

“Ooh. What you got for me, buddy?” Harvey rubs his hands together. And this, this camaraderie, might be the one thing Jim misses most about being on the force. Being a PI might mean far less red tape, and still getting the bad guy… after a fashion… but he has to pretend hard to himself that how solitary the work is isn’t getting to him.

“You recognise this guy?” He hands Harvey the photograph, and Harvey retrieves his glasses from where they’re perched on his head to take a look at it, Chandler craning over his shoulder to get a look in too.

"Who, this lowlife? Raoul Kowalski. As I hear it on the grapevine, an up and coming mover and shaker. More of a junkie than a mob lord. If you ask me, this new generation, they just ain't got no class. Back in my uni days, criminals were respectable, you know what I'm sayin'?"

“You got an address for him?”

“I can scare you one up. This isn’t interferin’ with GCPD matters, of course..?”

Jim puts on his best innocent face. “Of course not. Thanks, Harv. You’re a marvel.”

“Hey, I try my best. Say, you gonna swing by for some birthday drinks later? Me and some of the guys’ll be at Finnegan’s after work. Be good to catch up.”

An ex-cop, at a cop bar, surrounded by cops… Jim can think of more appealing ways to spend a Friday night, but the hopeful look on Harvey’s face means there’s not even a chance of him saying no. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you later, Harv.”

“Later, brother.”

As he turns to leave, he hears Chandler start up again immediately. "What are you hiding anyway, Bullock? You had spectacles and a retainer? Zits on top of being a carrot top?"

"I'll have you know I was a handsome little tyke. Casanova of Our Lady Star of the Sea, I was."

"Yeah, yeah. That's what Father O'Handsy told you, choirboy."

Jim wrinkles his nose, half wince, half laugh. Heads back out onto the streets.

 

He’s already pretty far gone when he gets to the bar. It’s been a long day, that only went downhill after his visit to the precinct, with one case coming up only dead ends, and another customer skipping out on payment. He’d hit the Scotch, furious and frustrated. Lost track of time and forgotten to grab dinner and now it’s gone ten and he’s pushing open the door at Finnegan’s and hoping that Harvey’s group hasn’t moved on yet.

Of course, he needn’t worry. Once any of that crew get settled into a place that serves liquor, it’s pretty nigh impossible to move them along, even when it’s closing time.

“Jimbo!” Harvey staggers to meet him, and then there’s a hand at his nape, a kiss being pressed to his cheek. And Jim would deny the stirrings that causes except he’s too drunk and angry at himself to make the effort now, to wonder why he’s not repulsed at the feeling of Harvey’s lips, damp with whisky spit, against his skin. “Come, sit, sit…”

There’s a handful of guys from the station. Detectives, mostly, a couple of uniform. No women, which does not surprise Jim one jot, despite all of Harvey’s talk. Harvey gets the others to move along, of course he does, shifting the order on the booth’s bench seat so that Jim is next to him. So that Jim’s thigh is pressed against his, his breath hot in Jim’s ear as he leans in too close to stage-whisper station gossip. It’s all normal. He could be any of the guys, except he’s not. Because any of the other guys wouldn’t be noticing these things, cataloguing them and measuring them against the rest of their failures. Harvey. He’s so drunk. In such high spirits. And Jim is so full of directionless rage, smiling tightly in the right places, nodding and laughing and barely hearing the conversation around him, and drinking… and drinking.

By the time Hannity makes his excuses and leaves, Jim can barely feel his own face. Barely registers the others peeling off, one by one. Feels, all too lucidly, Harvey clap a palm to his thigh to punctuate a joke, his loud, warm laugh and his firm, warm hand… Jim shifts in his seat. Who’s still here? Him, and Alvarez, and the new guy – Blake?

“You OK, Jim?”

“Huh?” He blinks at Harvey. So close. Resists the urge to rest his head on Harvey’s shoulder, even though he knows Harvey would let him. Would probably think nothing of it, even.

“Time, gentlemen. Drink up, you layabouts. You don’t have to go home, but you ain’t stayin’ here.”

“Last men standing!” Harvey says. Jim watches him clink glasses, laughing, with that guy, Blake… Knows he’s not going to finish his own beer. Hopes he can stand.

At least Harvey is in a pretty similar state.

It’s raining. How did that happen? Jim blinks, realises they’re a good few blocks from the bar, and they’re alone, and he’s losing time. His arm is slung around Harvey’s shoulder, pressed close and overfamiliar.

“Just like old times, hey?” Harvey is saying, and his voice isn’t slurred, exactly, but it’s soft around the edges.

The rain is sobering Jim up, just enough to recognise that how sober he’d now swear he feels is just a lie that his brain is feeding him. Sleep. Sleep’s what he needs.

“Where are we?”

“Forty eighth.” Harvey sounds a little surprised. “Earth to Gordon.”

“Mmm. We headed to your place?”

“You said you’d walk me home.”

“I did?”

“You were kinda insistent.” To Jim’s relief, Harvey laughs. “Maybe it’s best you do stop over. If you choke on your own puke I can put you in the recovery position.”

It’s Jim’s turn to laugh. “Thanks, Harv, I’m not in quite bad a state as… in quite as… as…”

“You were sayin’?”

“We’re here.”

It takes Harvey no less than four attempts to get his key into the lock. A while for Jim to realise that he’s _giggling_. He’s breathless as he collapses on the couch, both of them sitting at the same time so that they fall heavily against one another and suddenly Jim is too lethargic to move away just for appearance’s sake. Harvey leans forward. Snags a half-full forty from the coffee table and twists the cap. The movement has Jim sliding against him. Ending up practically lying against his chest.

“Drink up.” Harvey chuckles as Jim bats away the offered bottle. Harvey tries to tip it against his lips. He’s not pushing Jim away, and Jim is starting to feel strange. Uncomfortable and reckless. That familiar feeling of teetering on the verge of doing something catastrophically stupid.

“I don’t want it.”

“More for me.”

“Harv, hold up.” He pulls the bottle away from Harvey’s pursed lips, and Harvey side eyes him with a dopey grin that should be comical, but suddenly isn’t. “You do want it!”

 _Well, fuck. I do._ “Harvey… what are we? Are we friends?” His hand has somehow found its way to Harvey’s waist, resting limp and too-heavy against the steady rise and fall of Harvey’s belly. It’s like Harvey hasn’t even noticed. That’s how casually physical they are with one another, more than two grown men should be. Or maybe he’s just too drunk. Too drunk to be having this conversation, _but when has that stopped you, Jim?_

“I sure hope so.”

“But we’re _not_. We’re not just…” The words won’t come.

He doesn’t even quite know what he’s trying to say. But Harvey just looks down at him, unfocused and affectionate, and says, "I know how it is, Jim. I get it. You like being around me because I make you feel better. No matter how low you go, I'll always be lower. Always drink more, mess up more, always be dirtier."

"What? That's not the reason!"

"It's OK. I know you, brother. It's all good." He sounds so utterly unconcerned, like this is all a foregone conclusion, merely stated fact, that Jim can’t quite parse it. Perhaps he’s dreaming, or misunderstanding…

"Harvey will you please-"

"What? Anything. You should know that by now. Anything for you." He doesn’t sound mad, or even sarcastic. He sounds fine. Just a little… sad. It makes something twist in Jim’s heart.

"Stop calling me 'brother'." It's out before he can think it through. Nothing like what he wanted to say, but somehow everything he means, and he’s leaning up, twisting in Harvey’s embrace and Harvey gives a deep grunt of surprise and drops his whisky over the arm of the couch as their lips collide.

It's strangely endearing. Harvey’s hands hover in the air for seconds that feel more like minutes, as he fails to respond and Jim starts to tense for inevitable rejection. But not violence. Somehow he knows Harvey will let him down gently, and it'll be worse than a punch. But those hands, when they alight, don't push away.

“OK.” Harvey says, when they part for breath. He looks stunned, his eyes wide and surprised, but definitely very much on board. “We doin’ this? OK.” That hand at the nape of Jim’s neck: he thinks that's what started this, made him realise he had a crush, right back at the start of this. Of them. He’s pushed it down so far, pushed it down so well, but now he’s tired and alone and lonely and he’s sick of trying to censor himself. And Harvey _smells good_. Correction: Harvey smells exactly how Jim would expect him to after a twelve hour shift plus drinks, cooped up at a stuffy desk all morning, then pounding Gotham pavements all trussed up in his cheap polyester suit all afternoon. The scent of him is like a slap in the face, heavy and rusty; sweat and sex and cologne, so headily masculine he makes Jim's mouth water. Makes him want to rub his face against Harvey's crotch for Christ’s sake, and God help him if he isn't almost drunk enough to do just that. 

The thought drags an undignified whine from his throat, and Harvey’s hand tightens, possessive, on the back of his neck, and Jim wishes he’d just _do it, right here, now, press him down against the couch cushions, hold him down_ … “Oh God… Harv…” He doesn’t even know what he wants. He just knows that he _wants_. Tips back his head as Harvey noses along his jawline, kisses his pulse point, one hand still at his nape, the other holding one wrist just a shade too tight and it’s _perfect_.

“Come to bed.” Harvey’s voice is rough silk: Jim can suddenly understand how he gets all the action he claims to. The shudder it gives him trickles right from his scalp to his toes and Harvey tugs at his wrist, pulls him stumbling through the apartment in a blur of shadow and neon-shadow, and the distant outside sounds of rain and sirens and shouts.

It’s like a collage. As Jim snatches fleeting impressions of what’s happening, he realises, belatedly, how drunk he actually is: but there’s no way he’s stopping this. The only regret he has is that he can’t appreciate it more, catalogue these feelings with any kind of lucidity to save up and replay for his future. The seasick dip of the mattress, the softness of sheets. The tug as Harvey yanks his belt free. Inked skin. Hair glossed pale by night-blue light. The soft brush of beard against his bicep. Tongue like a damp rag. The _scent_ of him.

He’s still wearing his shorts, unflattering baggy striped things, but that’s all he’s wearing, kneeling over Jim. Jim, naked and breathless, bucking beneath him as Harvey holds him down by his wrists and kisses him slowly. If he fought, he could get free, but he’d have to actually try, and it’s exciting like this, to struggle and play conquered. God, he wants to be conquered. “You’re overdressed.”

Harvey smiles. Kisses his throat. Lets go of his wrists and Jim’s hands are instantly between his legs, palming him through thin cotton, feeling how big and thick and hard…

“Wait… Let me.” Harvey kisses him again, and Jim leans after, straining up off the bed as Harvey turns, sits up. Back to Jim, as he searches through the drawer of the nightstand, pulls out a foil strip of condoms and tears one open.

"You don't need to. Wear that." Jim doesn't want him to. Wants him bare: the thought, the realisation makes him shiver, shameful, even as his mouth fills with spit.

"I do if we're gonna fuck." Harvey's voice is rough. Hot. Commanding. And Jim feels hot, flooding through him at the words, his dick throbbing. "Tell me I'm wrong." Harvey pushes his shorts down, kicks them off and turns back to Jim. His eyes glint in the dim light. His hands are firm at Jim’s hips. Jim _squirms_.

"You're right. Let's do this." It sounds steady in his head, confident, but it comes out too eager. Needy.

Harvey catches his eye. Holds his gaze with an intensity that makes Jim look away. "Will you still be sayin’ that in the morning?"

"I want you." His head is spinning with the realisation that he means it. Jim wants this, desperately. Wants the luxury of making a bad decision under the cocooning influence of too much booze. To be flayed open and left raw. Wants the comfort of Harvey's arms. To be needed, just for one night, for who he is and not what he can promise and fail to deliver. For things to be good between them again, really good, like before, even if it's just for tonight. Even if it means digging up and laying bare every feeling he ever tried so desperately to repress for this man. His partner, his brother. The love of his life. Lying back and taking what's given to him: it's a first, but he's pretty sure he can do that.

Harvey’s hands are gentle. He wonders if he’s always like that, with all of his companions, or if this is special treatment. Kissing a path across Jim’s ribs with slow, deliberate care. Holding his hips down as he drags the flat of his tongue the length of Jim’s aching dick. As he spreads Jim’s legs wide.

“Oh God, _God_ …” He’s shuddering at the first touch, crying out, louder than he means to. He’s just too worked up, too sensitive: the stroke of Harvey’s fingertips against his asshole has him spasming already, tensing his belly in an effort not to spill. Harvey stills. Sucks his lower lip into his mouth, just for a moment.

"Hold up. You ever done this before?"

"I..." How is he supposed to answer that, when they’ve come this far? When he’s laid out like this, by the one person he has left?

Harvey’s fingers trail, across Jim’s thigh. Rest against his knee. "Shit. You've never been with a guy before, have you?"

"No." The word comes out small and choked and this awful tightening of his throat feels like tears.

"Damn. Jim, I'm sorry... You ain't ready. I won't do that to you."

 _No, no no no no._ "You think I can't take it?"

"I think we should take it slow. Trust me, Jimmy."

“Don’t you…” _Want me? Fucking dare call me that?_ “Don’t stop. Harvey. I know what you’re thinking, but I want this.”

He tries to press up, against him, to use every move a woman’s ever used on him. But Harvey holds him down again, firm, and it’s _maddening_ how hungry for it the frustration is making him. “No.” He rolls to the side, lying next to Jim, full length on the bed. “Your first time ain't gonna be some drunk fumble. You'll wake up with a sore head and a sore ass and you'll hate me. I can't have that, Jim. We both deserve more than that.”

It's too tempting though- that description. Jim mewls, desperate and desire-blind, presses against him and feels him shudder, Harvey’s eyes fluttering shut and lips parting, blindly seeking skin like he can't quite control himself, pressing devoted kisses against Jim’s bare shoulder. And Jim’s a slave to arousal, the overwhelming need blotting out every other ugly clamour of guilt or fear or shame. The thought of it: waking up sore, stretched, full of the memories of the night. _Skin slick with sweat, slapping._ _Full_. _Moans_. Jim moans at the idea. Would he be tender? _Loose_? Would he stay that way, changed forever? Fuck, he wants it so badly that when Harvey pushes him gently away he feels tears sting the corners of his eyes.

"Jim... don't. I know it's selfish of me, but I can't have you hate me. I can't. Not you."

"I won't hate you. Please."

"Fuck, I want you. You have no idea how much I want you. But we shouldn't."

"I need it." God, he _sounds_ so needy. Rubbing himself against Harvey's hip like a dog.

"If you say that to me again when you're sober, I swear on my Gramma Eileen's grave I'll pound you so nice you'll not walk straight for a fortnight."

Jim whines. Humps Harvey's leg faster, hears him curse softly under his breath. The room is spinning, but he's glad of his inebriation. Aside from he'd never have the guts to do this sober, if he wasn't this blitzed he'd probably have lasted all of two minutes. As it is, his arousal feels murky, distant: his mind, his senses turned on to the point of desperation, but his sluggish body ten steps behind. Harvey's hand on his dick still makes him gasp, push greedily into the touch. "Please still want me in the morning," Harvey whispers against his lips and Jim feels a curl of guilt amidst the consuming flames of this immediate need.

"I will."

"You better." He's kissing Jim again, deep and thorough, sucking on his tongue as he strokes his dick, his own hard-on, still sheathed in latex, rocking against Jim's bare hip, and it's so good, so dumbly, physically good, but even drunk as he is Jim can't miss the hint of sadness in Harvey's voice. He tries to kiss it away. To throw himself into this, thoroughly, to prove to Harvey he means this, every snatched breath of it.

“Yes… don’t stop… I’m close…” Harvey’s hands on him are poetry. His lips at Jim’s throat, dragging ragged gasps from him with every kiss. When Jim stiffens and shudders, Harvey pulls back. Watches him, holding their eye contact in a way that has Jim panting even harder, utterly exposed. _Witnessed_. It's so long and slow it feels dragged out of him, a tilting pileup of an orgasm that lifts his hips from the mattress, tears a cry from his throat. He hears, dimly, Harvey groan in response and it’s the most delicious sound he can ever remember hearing. There’s a ringing in his ears. The room receding. Spinning. The mattress beneath him too soft, swallowing him up like it’s melting.

His skull is on too tight.

“Oh _God_ ,” Jim hears himself say, in absolute dismay.

He wonders for a second if he just dreamt that, until he hears an answering chuckle by his side and the world lurches and Harvey says, “Mornin’ sleeping beauty.” The room tips again as Harvey gets out of bed, and he’s naked, and Jim can’t look away. Registers the heavy, alarming swing of his dick, before Harvey’s turned, broad back to him, and shuffled off towards the bathroom.

Surely it’s like, two minutes, since they came to bed? Alone, Jim presses the back of his hand against his mouth and whimpers. Sweet _Jesus_ , the _pain_. Everything is uncomfortable, his skin sticky and gritty and sweaty. The tangle of sheets around him is like a straitjacket, full of the scent of sex. Of Harvey. It could be comforting, and that just makes it all the more unsettling, but Jim feels too ill to move. Too sick to do anything other than lie on his back with his forearm pressed across his burning eyes and try not to actually vomit.

When Harvey returns, he’s still mostly naked, but has thankfully put on a pair of shorts, because otherwise Jim isn’t sure he’d know where to look. The mattress creaks as Harvey sits on the edge and hands Jim something.

"Here." Jim shuffles a little more upright and takes the glass, then wrinkles his nose at the whiskey inside. "Trust me." Jim grimaces. "Learn from the master. This’ll take the edge off, we can do the rehydration thing later.”

 _We_. Both his belly and his tongue protest as he knocks the bourbon back, but it does make him feel weirdly better. Enough to slide half out of bed, holding the rumpled covers around him as he scans around for his underwear. Harvey’s watching him, arms folded, a strange look in his eye. “You weren’t this shy last night, stud.”

“I’m not-” Jim sighs. Runs a hand through his messy hair and lets his death grip on the duvet relax just a little. “Sorry. I don’t regret it.”

“Nah. I know.” Harvey’s tone says he knows all too well. He crosses the room. Bends to retrieve something, and then Jim’s clumsily catching his shorts as they’re flung at him.

“I’m sorry.” He says again. He smiles, hopefully. “I was a little bit…”

“You told me I was the love of your life, then you started crying, then you passed out on me. You snore like a cement mixer when you’re tanked, by the way.”

Jim winces, but the corner of Harvey’s mouth has quirked up: he’s trying, trying to give Jim an easy out, even if the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess it’s one big favour I owe you, to get you to keep that one quiet?”

“You guess correctly, kiddo. Also, you’re buyin’ me breakfast.”

“Birthday boy’s prerogative.” He tries to make the smile he flashes feel natural, but they both know it’s strained.

Harvey nods. “Damn straight, it is. Here.” He drops a spare towel down onto the edge of the bed, threadbare but clean. “You know where the bathroom is. Knock yourself out.”

The privacy of Harvey’s bathroom is a relief. Jim showers, and swills his mouth with toothpaste, and wishes he could shave. He checks the bathroom cabinet just in case, although the likelihood of Harvey having disposable razors in there seems remote. What he finds instead makes his stomach flip all over again. A bottle full of pills. Unmarked. Lots of them. Jim twists the cap, sniffs. Picks one out to touch his tongue to it, tastes the familiar sharpness of codeine. It could be prescription – heaven knows that Harvey’s sustained enough injuries on the job even in the course of Jim knowing him to merit it - but there’s a _lot_ there. No pharmacy label. Jim’s head pounds. He slides the bottle back in place and then he spots the blister pack of syringes concealed at the back of the cabinet. An icy feeling trickles in his gut, swilling around in the nauseated wake of last night’s bad alcoholic decisions, and suddenly he doesn’t want to snoop any more. He wants to get as far away from this situation as possible, even as the pre-emptive guilt of leaving Harvey when he promised not to do exactly that, grips him in its teeth.

In the end, he’s even too much of a coward to make his excuses. He prickles his way through a diner breakfast, so different to the countless times they’ve done this before, his smiles too forced and bright. Harvey’s eyes too sad and knowing.

“Aspirin.” Harvey says, as Jim eyeballs the smaller bottle he twists open, dry-swallowing what looks like a handful of pills. “Want some?”

“No. Thanks. I’m OK.”

“You don’t look it. You look like a dress rehearsal for your funeral.”

“Well, gee, thanks Harv.”

Harvey shrugs. Hides behind a curtain of greasy hair, eyes firmly fixed on his plate of pancakes as he says, “Why don’t you get home and get another hour in before work? You freelance types can do that, right?” His voice sounds too airy. Studiously unconcerned.

Jim hates himself for how easily he agrees. For how much lighter he feels when the diner door jingles shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s easy to immerse himself in work so that he can pretend he’s not avoiding Harvey. Can pretend he’s not actively trying not to think of him, because any thought is an immediate avalanche of confusion and doubt. He’s had years of practice at this. He knows that these feelings, their history, need to be set out and examined, sober and considered, but… not now. Not yet, when he has unsolved cases to take his attention, the comforting black-and-white of bad guys and trying to play the good guy who brings them to justice.

The flickering, patchy memories of that night they spent together – it feels almost like a dream, now. The type of dream Jim has way too frequently, that leaves him frustrated and horny in the morning, choked with self-loathing. The kind of fleeting half-recollections that are more sensation than image and have him half-hard and yearning at the most inopportune moments. It’s not even that Harvey’s a man. It’s… Perhaps it’s a _little_ that he’s a man. That Jim has spent so long not examining this part of himself, his attractions, that to finally fall so hard for the one person he could count on, to screw up his one good relationship over a one night stand, is almost unbearable.

To find out more than he bargained for is almost unbearable.

Because when he thinks of Harvey now, all he can see is that pack of syringes. That bottle of black market pain pills. How Harvey wouldn’t even touch him without wearing a rubber. All the scenarios carousel through his head: drug addiction, illness. Things that Harvey has kept from him. Things Jim should be helping him with, not running from. So, it’s so much easier to throw himself into work, to blot out these feelings of failure. Because the more Jim lets the memories in, the more he sees, like a terrible magic eye picture coming suddenly into focus. Memories, of Harvey wincing in pain. Bleary-eyed and unsteady. Popping pill after pill before charging on with the fight. All of it, Jim saw but never really paid attention to before. The shame of that oversight has him turning to his own distractions, the comforting darkness that comes at the bottom of a bottle, the end of a Narrows alleyway, the receiving end of a clenched fist.  


Eventually, Harvey finds him in Janik’s. Slides in next to him on a stool, dropping his hat on the counter and gives him a slow once over that makes Jim hate himself again at how much it gets under his skin in all the wrong ways.

It’s been nearly two weeks. "I didn't give you that tip off so's you could go audition as a punch bag."

Jim shrugs. Turns his whisky-spiked coffee cup in his hands and wishes he were back on the receiving end of Kowalski's heavy mob: at least then he'd had the merciful white noise of pain washing his mind clean of thoughts too complicated to dwell on. "You'd really take getting the snot beat outta you over just talking to me?"

"Yep." It’s easier this way. Easier on Harvey, as well as on him.

"Jesus, Jim." Harvey doesn't sound disappointed, or hurt, or angry. He sounds _disgusted_. "I know you’re in a bad place right now. I’ve always known you’re stubborn and you’re proud and you’ll try to prove you’re right in a million new ways before you’ll once admit you’re wrong, but I _never_ took you for a coward."

The realisation takes Jim harder than any right hook: he couldn't have anticipated how much it would hurt to truly lose Harvey's respect. He wants to take it all back, straight away. But he can’t look Harvey in the eye.

Pride. That’s the kicker. He’s sneered at Harvey for his lack of it, feels ashamed now to have done so – not that he could ever admit to that. After all of the things Harvey’s done for him. Bent and broke the rules, trusted him, followed him down every dark path he’s stubbornly taken. Sprung him from prison and flat-out whored himself out so that Jim could steal information. Jim closes his eyes: the things he can’t un-hear from that night. He swallows, tightly, the prickle across his skin uncomfortably, ridiculously close to jealousy. Sure, Harvey has sacrificed his pride for Jim, plenty, but Jim still knows what he’s going to say.

“ _I’m_ the coward? Harvey, why didn’t you tell me that you needed help?”

“What?” He sounds genuinely perplexed. His gaze roves across Jim’s face, as if searching for clues: Jim leans against one hand propped on the counter, palm self-consciously covering the butterfly stitches across his jaw, too aware of the irony. “ _I_ need help?”

Jim lowers his voice to a murmur, because walls have ears, even more so in Gotham. It makes Harvey lean in closer, seems to heat the air between them, and why is he feeling this, _now_? “I know I should have noticed. I should have known. I should have been a better friend.”

“Well, yeah.” Harvey is frowning, a bemused little line between his eyebrows. “But… what are you talking about?”

Jim risks meeting his gaze. Regrets that, too. Hisses, “I’m talking about the drugs. You never told me you were… sick. We’re supposed to be partners.”

Harvey’s mouth drops open. “Jim, I’m not sick. I don’t know what you think you know, but that’s not it.”

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. Not when we’ve…” He trails off. Isn’t sure he likes the way Harvey’s expression flickers at that. How he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Isn’t sure if he likes it _a lot._ “You should have told me, Harvey.” His voice comes out strangely desperate. “I could have helped.”

“Buddy… I truly do not have a freakin’ clue what you’re yammering on about.”

His expression, the lack of comprehension in his eyes, ignites a sudden spark of anger in Jim’s chest. “The pills. The syringes. I always knew about you drinking-” He cradles his Irish coffee. “But I never realised how deep it went. I should have known.”

“So you could, what? Fix me?” The confusion has darkened. Something in Harvey’s expression closing up in a way that makes Jim flinch.

“Help you. That’s what friends do.”

“That’s what friends do, huh?”

“Harvey…” He hates the pleading in his voice. That boxcar feeling of everything careening out of control again. “I just didn’t know how to deal with it. Addiction. It’s not something I’m familiar with.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, hotshot.” And just like that, Harvey’s tone has softened again.

Jim bites his lip. “There are things you don't know about me too, Harv. But I’d never hide something like that, not from you.”

“Everyone's got stuff nobody knows about. It's called being human.” He feels the stir of breath against the back of his hand as Harvey exhales a long sigh. “Just what exactly is it that you think you know?”

“I…” It hits him, suddenly: the shame of being caught snooping. And perhaps now he recalls in hindsight all those too-frequent times he’s watched Harvey swallow down handfuls of pills on the job, but there’s no way he’d know about those needles unless he’s been invading Harvey’s privacy. “I didn’t mean to pry.” He offers.

“You think I’m using, don’t you?”

“Are you?”

“Jesus, Jim.” Harvey places his hat back onto his head. It looks as if just that small movement is enough to wear him out. For a moment, Jim is scared he’s going to just turn and leave, but he says, “Not here. Come back to my place. Please.”

Jim nods, silent. Drains the bitter dregs of his coffee and stands to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

If he thought the memories of that night were tormenting him, it’s nothing compared to how they flood back when he sets foot in Harvey’s flat again. Jim rubs the back of his neck, glancing around. The gesture does nothing to ease the corkscrew tension that’s twisting him into knots.

“Here. Sit down.” Harvey pitches a couple of newspapers off of the armchair and nods. “You want a drink? You’re gonna need one. Hell, _I’m_ gonna need one.”

“Harvey… it can’t be that bad.”

Harvey snorts. Casts his eyes to the ceiling, smiling a bitter smile. He shakes his head. Fusses with his shirt cuffs, rolling the sleeves up. Paces.

Jim takes the offered glass of whisky obediently. He feels cold inside, more anxious than he’s ever been facing any case. “You’re scaring me.”

“Nah. It ain’t you needs to be scared.” Harvey exhales, pushing both hands through his hair. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Telling you.” His face crumples, fraught with distress, so that Jim’s emotion bypasses his misgivings and all he wants to do is move next to him on the couch where he’s sat and throw his arms around him. Instead, he places his glass carefully down on the coffee table. Harvey says, “You spend your whole life escaping. Trying to outrun it, ‘til one day, you tell yourself, _one day_ , it won’t matter anymore: it’s behind you. But that’s bull crap. One day it’s gonna find you again and it’s gonna bite you right in the ass.”

“I thought you said you weren’t using.” Jim says, as gently as he can. No matter what Harvey tells him now, he thinks, it won’t matter. He hates to see him so miserable, brought so low. Can’t bear that he’s the cause of it, yet again.

“OK.” Harvey sucks in a deep breath, then swallows a good slug of the generous measure he’s poured for himself. “I ain’t always been the guy you see before you now. This fine figure of a man.” Jim snorts: he can’t help it. Rolls his eyes. But Harvey just holds his gaze, apparently deadly serious for once. “Those needles you were talking about?” Jim flinches, looks away, but thankfully Harvey skips the lecture on going through other people’s stuff and barrels straight on. “They ain’t for smack. They’re for… Oh boy.” He pauses, passes a shaky hand over his face, stroking the ashy ginger of his beard. “They’re for hormone injections. You get what I’m saying, Jim?”

“No.” Jim can only stare at him, blankly.

Harvey pinches the bridge of his nose. “OK… So. When my ma gave birth to me, they thought I was… I mean, to all intents and purposes I was…” He takes a long breath. “They thought I was a girl.”

Harvey was born a girl? Jim frowns, confused in the face of the impossible. “You… have a hormone imbalance?”

Harvey closes his eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud. I’m trans. Transgender. _Please_ tell me you know what that means; I don’t wanna have to draw diagrams.”

“I know what it means.” Jim snaps. Then, “…What?” He narrows his eyes, checking Harvey’s expression for signs of a wind-up.

But Harvey just looks shell-shocked. His hands shake as he downs the rest of his whisky and pours another. “I’ve never told nobody before. I don’t think I need to say: this goes no further, OK? It’s my life in your hands, brother.”

 _Still brother, even after they’ve_ … “But we… we’ve…” Jim swallows, steeling himself to say it. “Harvey, we slept together.”

“Don’t worry. It don’t make you straight.” Harvey huffs a humourless laugh.

“But we were… intimate.” He clears his throat, awkward. Even now, the memory, the admission of it, is making him squirm, not unpleasantly. “I know… I mean, I _know_ that you’re a man.” And there’s no way, no possible way it can be otherwise. Jim’s head reels: out of all the possible revelations Harvey could have sprung upon him, this is far, far down the list.

“Damn _right_ I’m a man.” Harvey says. He sounds angry. He goes to refill his glass again and Jim can’t help it: he leans forward and stays his hand, fingers against his wrist. The electric thrill of it isn’t diminished, no matter how inappropriate Jim’s feelings are right at this point. Harvey puts the glass down. He looks as close to tears as Jim has ever seen him. “The miracles of modern medicine,” he says, quietly.

It hangs in the air between them. Seconds dragged out, too long. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Jim thinks of him. Naked. Big and broad and… no, he really shouldn’t go down that path of thought right now. But his mind, his emotions, can’t connect Harvey to any other physical presence, past or otherwise.

“Serious as Life Without Parole.”

“You never told me. You kept this from me.”

Harvey looks at him, sadly. “I never _had_ to tell you. I don’t owe you my secrets, Jim.”

It’s true: Jim knows it is. But something inside him still feels the sting of betrayal. “But it’s who you are.”

“No. It’s not who I am. It’s not even who I _was_. This is me, right here. This has _always_ been me. Nothing’s changed.”

Nothing’s changed, except everything. And, Jim realises abruptly, it’s nothing to do with how Harvey was or wasn’t born. He swallows, tightly, his throat closing up again, against that feeling like unshed tears. It’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done, to reach out and take Harvey’s hand. But if Harvey is willing to put himself on show like this, then the least Jim can do is stop lying to himself and do the same.

Harvey jerks at the touch, as if he’s about to pull away, but he doesn’t. Bends his head to stare dumbly at his hand in Jim’s. His hair hangs in his face, obscuring his expression. They’re both sat so far on the edge of their seats that their knees are almost touching.

"Can I... ask you things?" Jim’s voice wavers.

A pause. Then, " _You_ can."

"I take it that means you don't talk about it much?"

"What's to talk about?” If Harvey’s trying for his usual casual nonchalance, it’s not working. “It's ancient history to this ol' dog now."

"How long ago?"

"I lose track. Comin' up thirty years I guess. I mean, it didn't happen all at once."

"That's why you moved here."

"Not just a pretty face, are you."

Jim imagines it. Harvey, moving here from across country, all alone. Barely out of his teens. Moving to _Gotham_. Even now, armed with this new knowledge, his brain supplies a mental image of a young man. A teenage, clean-shaven Harvey, hefting a backpack onto a Greyhound bus. His thumb strokes the back of Harvey’s hand and Harvey’s fingers tighten around his. "Did you... Have someone to talk to back then?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I had people. Nobody like you. It was a long time ago. You kept shit like this quiet. You learnt to play the part."

"Did your parents know?"  
"Ha." The laugh says it all. What Harvey’s already shared about his parents: devout and traditional; good, honest folk. It takes on a different caste in this light. "Nah, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"With _pity_." He spits the word like a slur, talks all over Jim's reflexive protest. "I moved here. I wrote them every fortnight. Kept them updated on all my news, I just never told them that part. It was for the best, Jim.” He sounds almost pleading. “It was a different generation back then."

"So you never saw them, since..?"

"Nope. But if it makes you feel any better, they couldn't get my brother to move outta the house until he was thirty two, so as far as they were concerned, I was a blessing."

Harvey, young and alone, moving to the big city. "I wasn't thinking of them." Jim says, softly.

"Jim. Look at me. I'm fine."

He is. So fine. His gaze frantic, eyebrows drawn together, concerned. Jim wonders what he’s thinking. If he thinks Jim hates him. "It must have cost you a fortune."

That stubborn raise of his chin that Jim knows so well. "Yeah, well. I'm worth it."

"How did you afford it?"

"I worked. I saved."

"You saved on a police wage?" Jim frowns.

Harvey laughs, softly. "Jesus, no. I didn't join the force til I was, y’know.” He clears his throat. “I got loans."

Jim knows that shifty expression too well, and suddenly so much is clicking into place, like the barrel of a well-oiled handgun, primed to damage. "All totally above board, of course."

"Of course." Harvey rolls his eyes. Sighs. "You never wonder why I keep this crappy apartment on a detective's wage?"

"You're still paying it off." It's not a question. Suddenly, so much is making sense with dizzying rapidity. The deals, the debts, the overtime: Jim feels a stab of guilt that he'd thought it all went on gambling and hookers.

Harvey smirks, like he can read Jim's mind. "Like I said. I'm worth it."

“I just…” He gropes for the words. He knows this man. He’s _slept_ with him, for pity’s sake, has spent a drunken night wrapped naked in his arms, and he’s no expert on how these things work but he’s sure, so _sure_ , he’d have known, from that. _Surely_? “I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Help me out here?”

Harvey shrugs. He looks more than a little helpless himself. "Didn't you ever..? I mean, c'mon, I know I'm not everyone's flavour of eye candy but you must've clocked these war wounds?" He gestures, vague, indicating his torso.

Jim frowns. Whilst he'd certainly seen, he'd just never thought. "Harv... You're _covered_ in scars." It's almost funny the way Harvey glances down at his shirt front, like he's thinking about the map of slashes and puckers across his skin for the very first time, as Jim offers, apologetically. "I wasn't keeping count."

"Well. I'll be damned. This?" His fingertips graze the wide patch of mottled scar tissue along his left forearm.

"I always assumed motorcycle accident. It looks like road rash."

"Kinda does, huh." Harvey's fingers stroke the skin in a way that makes Jim shiver as if it's him who's being touched. Harvey glances up, slyly. "You can picture me on a bike, then?"

A rush of heat. "Maybe." Jim forces out.

"In leathers?"

"Jesus..." It’s like all of the air is being sucked from the room. And Jim knows he should be concentrating on the subject in hand, that it’s important and a priority and needs to be given attention. But Harvey’s fingers are still moving, hypnotically, and ever since the night of Harvey’s birthday he’s been unable to concentrate on anything other than…

"I can't believe you never noticed." Harvey says.

"You have...” Jim can feel his voice crack: he’s not nearly drunk enough to be this confessional, but he owes Harvey some honesty. “Well, your tattoos sort of pull focus as well."

"They do, huh? That what you like?” Harvey leans closer, jostling his knees. It could be accidental, but then again… “I'm building up a picture here, Jimbo... Tattoos and a motorbike?” His voice drops lower, a silky drawl. “You're a traditional guy, ain't you, soldier? Real Tom of Finland type."

"I don't know who that is, but I don't care." Jim’s free hand, the hand that isn’t already twined with Harvey’s, settles on Harvey’s knee. His mouth feels dry, but he’s afraid to swallow, feels like it’ll look too obvious, sound too loud.

Harvey’s voice rasps, sounds every bit as breathless as Jim feels. "So you shouldn't. Look at you. You're a dream come true, Jim Gordon. Jimmy Dean reincarnated, but this time, God help you, you went and got a cause."

"It loses me everyone I love."

"It's one of the things I love most about you."

The hollow feeling in Jim’s belly echoes. "That you..?"

"Yeah. That I love." His voice is so quiet, so serious. And Jim wants to bottle this moment, save it forever. "There's a lot to love about you, Gordon. You should know that."

It feels surreal. Too much seismic truth, shaking the ground from beneath him. “I wish it _felt_ that way. I already thought I'd lost you..."

"Hey, hey, c'mon now. None of that. You got me. Goddammit, you're a pain in my ass but you got me, always."

He’s dreaming. He must be. "Sometimes it feels like everything I touch turns to ash." 

"That ain't true Jim. It just ain't true." Harvey’s hands tremble as he takes Jim's, places them on his own face, and Jim closes his eyes at the comforting familiar feeling, strokes his thumbs through the roughness of Harvey's beard and marvels at how they’ve ended up here again. After everything Harvey has just said, he’s still the one comforting Jim. "You can touch me. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever, I swear."

"I... Harvey?" He can't even unravel in his head what he wants to ask. It's a lot. Too much, maybe. Too much information, and too much confusing emotion backed up in his psyche like a motorway pile-up. There've been too many fatalities already: he doesn't want any more. But the feelings, they won't go away, and the memories of that one drunken night illuminate his darkness in blinding golden flickers of longing and belonging. And his hands drift, mesmerised, to Harvey's belt buckle.


	4. Chapter 4

"Jim..." He's not making a move to stop him: on the contrary, Harvey's hips cant up in blatant invitation, but his tone halts Jim's hands all the same. "Are you sure?" Harvey asks. Jim nods dumbly, thumb stroking worn leather, tracing the warm metal of Harvey’s belt buckle. He feels wired, like he can't blink, this singing want ringing through him. "I just..." Harvey says. Trails off.

"Don't you want to?" Jim's voice comes out as a whisper, and Harvey groans, softly. Covers Jim's hands with his own, in a way that makes Jim’s heart thump, so pronounced he’s sure it must be audible.

"I do, I do. You have _no idea_ how much. I just... I want you to be sure. _I_ gotta be sure. You mean too much to me to..."

"To what?"

The look in Harvey's eyes is unfamiliar. After a moment, Jim realises it's fear. "If you just wanna see,” Harvey says, carefully. “I'll show you. Because it's _you_ , OK? But I need to know you want this, really want this, because... because it's me. Not just ‘cause you're curious."

"Do you really think I'd do that to you?" Harvey's eyes are so bright, the green-blue of seawater, shimmering. "Harvey, I've always wanted you.” He realises, acutely, as he says it, that it’s absolutely true. “That's never changed."

"I guess I kinda...” It feels like Harvey’s looking into Jim’s _soul_ or something. He bites his lower lip, worries at it. “I kinda hoped, but I didn't like to read into things, y’know? And, Jim, you didn't say anything."

"I didn't want to screw it up. Like I always do. Screw _us_ up. Whatever I do, it never seems to be enough. I'm never enough."

Harvey exhales a stunned-sounding little laugh. "Well, boy, do I know how that feels."

"You're enough for me."

“Back atcha, buddy.” The bravado Jim knows so well is creeping back in. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

 

It’s different, sober. Or, as close to sober as he – as either of them – get these days, Jim guesses. He stiffens up on reflex, still uncertain of the gentle press of Harvey’s lips against his own. He shouldn’t have doubted. A few tentative moments and he’s relaxing, melting into it, the sweetness heating to something heavier. Harvey’s hands stroke up his ribs, fingers gentle. It should be soothing; it’s exciting. His grip tightens as he sucks on Jim’s tongue: Jim moans into his mouth, and Harvey tugs Jim’s shirt up, slides his palms across bare skin, fast all at once. It’s enough to make Jim gasp, the shivers tingling right up his spine to his scalp and he can’t remember ever feeling this turned on in his life before.

They’ve barely even kissed. “Please. I’m ready.” His voice sounds unsteady again.

Harvey hesitates. Looks him too directly in the eye. “I just… I’m not sure if _I’m_ ready.” His hands still linger, warm, on Jim’s bare skin. “If I’m not… would you wait for me?” _Am I worth the wait?_ He doesn’t say it, but it’s so clear. And Jim wants to yell at the frustration of it, but knows with absolute certainty that he would. He’d wait.

“Harvey… yes. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” A thumb strokes, just above Jim’s waistband: he shudders. It feels like a test.

“For being a coward. For wasting all of this time.”

Harvey nods, hesitantly. Looks satisfied. “You got nothing to apologise for. Except maybe for going through another guy’s bathroom cabinet without asking.”

“You’re hardly ‘another guy’.” He freezes, as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “I mean-”

“Jim. I know what you meant. Stop talking.” Harvey’s eyes are so bright, it looks almost like he’s close to laughing now. He cradles Jim’s cheek with one hand, thumb brushing along Jim’s lower lip and Jim closes his lips around it on some instinctive reflex and suddenly things are moving fast again.

“Bedroom. You remember where it is.”

Oh, God, he remembers.

Jim lets himself be crowded, hustled backwards through Harvey’s bedroom door as they kiss frantically, fall onto the bed. “I get to remember everything this time,” Jim says. His hand slides, palming the warm weight of Harvey’s dick through his pants. Pushing Harvey’s unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders.

Harvey laughs breathlessly, braced above him. The way his hair falls, curtaining his face, makes Jim’s heart lurch. “Was it not memorable enough the first time?” He’s teasing, but it still makes Jim wince. Perhaps he really should stop talking. Let his hands say it all instead.

“I don’t know. I think I need at least another few tries before it _really_ sticks.”

And that’s better. Harvey’s really laughing now, that happy note Jim craves. Quiets again as Jim slips his hands beneath Harvey’s undershirt, rucks it up.

He lets Jim strip him, gaze soft as Jim drops the shirt to the carpet, pushes him back onto the bed. An unspoken something in his eyes as he submits to Jim’s touch. His _scrutiny_ , Jim thinks, and it’s not an entirely comfortable thought. But he can’t help but stare, even if it’s not for the reasons Harvey might or might not be fearing. In the days and nights since their dalliance together, Jim has thought of this, too often. Especially during the nights. Harvey, spread out beneath him. Permission to touch. To _take_. The depth of his attraction, exploding all at once into something hungry and encompassing. And now here they are. Jim wets his lips. “Can I?” A shiver runs through him as he meets Harvey’s eyes, hands back on his belt buckle.

“Sure.” Harvey watches him, curiously, as he unbuckles, unzips. The weight of his gaze is heavy, almost embarrassing, as if Jim’s the one being undressed. He lifts his hips as Jim tugs his pants down. Strokes a palm up Jim’s forearm, intense and silent. Like he’s waiting on a verdict or something.

He’s gorgeous. Even now, the admission feels strange in the privacy of Jim’s head, never mind the impossible notion of saying it out loud. And he can’t remember when his contempt turned to like and his like turned to affection, heated to desire, but now he can’t deny to himself what he wants.

His fingers linger on a twisted patch of scar tissue, recent enough to still be pink. Gunshot. He remembers it; was there when the bullet clipped Harvey’s ribs, a flesh-wound, a lucky near-miss. It looks livid against Harvey’s skin. He’s pale, smooth. Solid and broad. Dappled with freckles. Covered in all the scars Jim remembers, and more besides, some silvery-old and almost faded invisible, some dark and new. Jim traces the curve of script inked across his chest. Drinks in how Harvey shudders, catches his breath, as he lets Jim trail his fingers lower, circling his navel and dipping beneath the waistband of his shorts. “Can I?” Jim asks again. His throat feels tight. Harvey nods. Lifts his hips again to help, his gaze burning, the heat washing over Jim in waves. "You're so big." He is. It’s a little daunting. His dick looks _heavy_ , thick and cut, smooth shaft and plump pink head, lolling in the crease of his thigh.

"Aren't you a sweet talker?" Harvey sounds breathless. That same ever tone of cocky overcompensation, but with something else underlying it, too. "Afraid, I'm a shower not a grower, though, baby."

"I don't... Can you..?" He’s so afraid of saying the wrong thing, speaking out of turn, but apparently Harvey is a mind-reader.

"Well, I need a little help to get it up. But Hell, what guy my age doesn't, you know what I'm sayin'?" Jim isn’t sure he does know, but he watches anyway, captivated and longing, Harvey’s hands on himself, thrillingly rough, stroking his shaft and squeezing at his balls, his dick rising obligingly as Jim’s mouth fills with spit.

"Can I touch you?"

"Jesus, I can't believe you're even asking."

Jim runs a careful fingertip up the length of him, tracing the line of scar that he only now knows enough to notice, from the sandy curls at the base to the fat pink head. The muscles in Harvey’s belly flex, and he gasps out a shaky breath.

 "Here. Like this.” He guides Jim’s hand to the base of him, encourages him to squeeze. “Hard... Rub it like… Oh, God, Jim... Just like that."

"You can feel that?" He feels… Jim doesn’t know. Has been with no other guys to compare. Keeps coming back to it: he wasn’t born like this. But as hard as he tries to hold onto that thought, the further it slips from him because this is Harvey, bared beneath him, finally, and for some reason he wants Jim back and Jim can hardly function from how much he wants this.

"Hell yeah, I can feel that." His breath is quickening as Jim keeps stroking, firm, the thick-hard-soft of another man’s cock in his hand thrilling and unfamiliar. So similar to his own, but so different too. Not as stiff as his own dick, aching hard in his jeans, but bigger, fatter… He’s so out of his depth. Unsure of what’s allowed. Almost nervous as he brings his other hand into play, exploring. Glides his palm up the smooth, unblemished skin of Harvey’s inner thighs. His balls are tight, firm: when Jim cups them, squeezes gently, Harvey tips his head back and groans. Encouraged, Jim presses a thumb against his taint. Slips further back, his heart hammering, shy of his own desires. When he brushes his thumb there, circles the tip against Harvey’s asshole, Harvey bites off a moan and Jim feels a hand wrap firmly about his wrist, stilling his stroking.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t -“

“It’s too good.” Harvey says, rough-voiced and breathless. “You do that right now, I’m gonna pop too quick. Gimme a second. Let me look at you.” He reaches up. Holds Jim at arm’s length, cradling his face. His gaze is so focused. Searching. His voice is low as he says, “Take your clothes off.”

Jim shudders, a heavy wave of it shivering from nape to tailbone at the words.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Yeah? You like that? Well, you got me, boy-scout. I’ve shown you mine, it’s only fair you show me yours. And I mean it… show me.”

If Jim was self-conscious before it was nothing compared to this. He feels almost dizzy with it, Harvey’s focused attention, prickling his skin so deliciously as he stands back and pulls his polo shirt over his head. And Harvey is a picture. Watching him, inscrutable as a big cat, sprawled on the bed, one hand behind his head, the other lazily jerking himself. Jim doesn’t miss how he squeezes, pressing down on the base of his dick, as Jim drops his shorts, can’t keep himself from touching his own straining hard-on. “Come here.” Jim crawls, eagerly, into his arms. “You’re so goddamn hot. Even hotter than I remembered.” Harvey murmurs the words into the warm space between them. Presses kisses to his forehead, his hair, even as he takes them both in one hand and Jim can’t restrain the buck of his hips, can’t hold in a desperate little cry. His head spins as Harvey takes his mouth again, stroking them both in time with the rhythm of his tongue. When they break apart, he’s whispering, desperate, “What do you want, Jim? Tell me what you want.”

“I want you.” It’s as coherent as he can manage.

“How’d you want me?” Jim can only pant in response, rutting into his fist. “You wanna do me?”

“Oh, God…”

“You want that?” Harvey sounds as ruined as Jim feels. God, does he want it, now the offer’s on the table. Except, he feels like he’s only managed to not climax already through sheer bloody-minded force of not wanting this to be over yet. "Trust me.” Harvey purrs, “I don't go ass-up for every boy I meet."

Jim closes his eyes against the fresh deluge of arousal threatening to pull him under. "Just some of them?"

He’s rewarded with a smirk. "Just some of 'em."

“Have you got..?”

“Nightstand drawer. Your side.”

“ _Gun Oil_?” He fumbles the bottle with the lurid logo across the side and Harvey lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug, taking it from him.

“I’m no marketing expert, but it does the job.” Jim watches - dry-mouthed, almost too wired to swallow – as he slips first one, then two fingers inside himself. Tries not to succumb to a keen spike of jealousy at the thought of this job being done with anyone but him. “You wanna lend a helping hand here, partner?” He leans up for a lazy kiss as he takes Jim’s hand, guides it between his legs. Moves to slick Jim’s cock up even as Jim’s fingers are buried deep inside slippery heat.

“Don’t you want me to wear something?” He can’t help but remember the last time. His eagerness, and Harvey’s reluctance.

"You clean?"

Jim can’t keep the indignation out of his reply. "Yes!"

"So'm I.” Harvey’s smile hitches up at one corner, maddening and maddeningly attractive. “In spite of what _some people_ might think. Forget the rubber. When you're gonna nut, pull out and gimme that load across my ass."

It shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but Jim is kissing him on reflex, hard, pushing his tongue into Harvey’s mouth. The dazed look in Harvey’s eyes when he pulls away is weirdly familiar and absolutely addictive. “Get on your knees for me.”

“Yes, _sir_.”

Jim tries not to overthink that one. Pushes Harvey’s knees further apart instead, presses kisses, sloppy and possessive, down his spine. Feels it right down in the pit of his belly when Harvey groans in response. “I ain’t gonna break…” He shudders as Jim presses the tip of his dick to his asshole, rubs back against him, circling his hips. “Give it to me hard. Just, build up slow. Easy. Make me feel it.”

“Like this?” Jim presses forward, pulling the hitch of his hips, while he just wants to _slam_.

Slips in, wet and snug, then teases back again and Harvey whines, “Oh, God, yeah, like that. Do that.” Keeps it up until Harvey is meeting his shallow thrusts, voice hoarse and begging, “Jim… no… no more teasing. Give it to me. Gimme all you got.” And Jim pushes forward, easy now, wraps his arms around Harvey’s waist and loses himself to this fever.

He's so hot inside, tight and sleek, gripping Jim's dick like he's made for it. It's like nothing he's felt before. So different to being with a woman. Tighter, more urgent... he rolls his hips and he can feel Harvey's goddamn pulse against the head of his cock, hammering fast and raw and this is the closest he's been, the closest he's ever felt to another person, and the storm of it, the whirlwind of lust and love and desperate need is snatching his breath away and, "Harvey... God I'm sorry, I can't stop..."

"Fuck... Just do it. Fill me up. C'mon, kid, I want that money shot."

He moans when Jim comes. Dips his back and clenches around Jim's throbbing dick, drawing the pleasure out so intense that Jim is shivering through it for long seconds, fingers tight on Harvey's waist, hips still twitching with aftershock thrills. He pulls out, brutally abrupt, in a way he can never remember doing with any other lover, mesmerised by the sight before him. Catches the curve of Harvey's ass-cheeks with his thumbs, pulling them apart to watch his fucked-open hole twitch, pink and glistening, a drop of come welling out, rolling down the back of his balls.

Jim's own moan feels far away, cock still throbbing, greedy with desire, and he hears Harvey beg, "Please, Jim, you gotta... more." his voice scraped raw. "Gimme your fingers, please, hard... Finish me off, fuck, please."

The words make him twitch, even though he’s spent. Make him wish he could run his mouth so easily too, tell Harvey exactly what he feels for him. He uses his fingers instead, pressing back into where Harvey’s all soft and wet now. His mouth, when Harvey twists around, awkward and desperate, panting against his lips as they kiss, grinding against Jim’s fingers Harvey jerks himself, fast and urgent. “Harder… harder, fuck, please, yes, hard, mess me up, make me feel it… Jim, oh God, Jimmy, I’m coming…” Jim closes his eyes against the immensity of it: Harvey tightens around his fingers again, a fluttering clench as he shivers and gasps, resting his forehead against the pillows as he stills.

“Holy mother of mercy, I think I sprained something.”

“Go easy on the flattery, there.”

Harvey pins him with a look, pushing messy auburn hair back from his face with one hand. He blows out a long, sated-sounding breath. “You want me to tell you how damn spectacular that was? Because I will…”

Jim laughs, self-conscious. “Please don’t.” After all that, he still feels strangely shy, lying here naked next to Harvey. He rolls to the side. Looks at him. The hair falling across his forehead and the faint shadow of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He feels, stupidly, like he wants to cry. “I can’t believe I got so lucky.”

“You mean that?” Harvey’s voice is quiet.

“Yes.”

The pause is a heartbeat too long. Too much packed into it. Then Harvey’s hand has found his, squeezes it briefly.

“Move up.” Jim shuffles as bid, and then Harvey is pulling the sheets down, climbing under them. “I’m tired.”

Jim can’t hold in another laugh. “You’re actually going to just roll over and go to sleep now?”

“Well, I guess you wore me out, stud.” Harvey drawls. He’s clearly poking fun, but Jim can’t help the little swell of pleasure and fresh arousal he feels, anyway.

“It’s the middle of the day…”

“Mmm, forget about that.” Patting the bed beside him, Harvey holds out an arm. “Come here. Naptime. It’s been a long morning. We deserve it.”

“Aren’t you still on the clock?”

“Ain’t you no longer a cop? Huh?” Jim smiles, in spite of himself. It’s too tempting. Accepts the offered embrace and settles down against Harvey’s chest as Harvey arranges the covers over them both, relaxing to the lull of his heartbeat. “As if you never took naps when we were on stakeout, anyway.” Harvey’s voice sounds suddenly far away.

“I most certainly… did not.” Jim replies, caught in the middle of his sentence by a yawn. He feels like he should try and show some token protest at least, but he’s so warm, and comfortable and sleepy. His eyelids flutter. His breath slows, evens out...


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes with a jolt, jerking against the pillows, a jumble of thoughts crowding his mind before he even gets his bearings: _I’m late. I need to get to work. Where am I?_ It’s a few heart-pounding moments before his memory catches up with his overworked survival instincts. The grey, afternoon light filters in through the blinds. Beside him, Harvey stirs, sleepy. And Jim remembers, everything, in an overwhelming rush.

“Hey.” He leans over. Places a hand on Harvey’s bare shoulder, shaking him gently.

Harvey groans. Flops onto his back, throwing one hand across his eyes and wrinkling his nose in a way that makes Jim’s chest clench up. After a second, he blinks up at Jim, and breaks into a slow smile, like Jim just hung the stars in the sky. “Hey yourself.”

“It’s getting late.” Jim smiles back, tentative. Whatever this magic spell is, he doesn’t want to break it. Can’t bear to move his hand, where it’s still resting, cautious, against Harvey’s skin.

“Time’s it?” Harvey mumbles. Then Jim is holding his breath as Harvey is suddenly pressed right up against him, the silky slide of skin on skin, as he reaches across him to retrieve his watch from the nightstand. “S’only three.”

“You’re still on the city’s dime, I take it?”

Harvey laughs, softly. “Call it compassionate leave. I needed to get laid.”

“You’ve done this before, then?” Jim asks. The sting of jealousy he feels is actually less than he’d have anticipated.

“Not like this I haven’t.” Harvey says. The way he’s looking at Jim, his gaze so adoring, is making Jim’s head spin. “Stay? Please?”

Jim nods. Notices how Harvey’s shoulders relax again as he lies back against the pillows.

He lets his eyelids drift closed as Harvey reaches out a hand. Cups his face so gently, fingers careful against the butterfly stitches along one side of his jaw. He feels fingertips trace the mottled bloom of bruising across his cheekbone. When he opens his eyes again, Harvey is looking at him, like _that_. Like he’s been waiting forever for the chance. “You got even more scars than I do, Junior.” His voice is still sleep-gruff. Serious, disguised as playful. Jim can see through him. Can read the concern between the lines of teasing. When he turns his head, kisses Harvey’s palm, the world doesn’t end. Harvey doesn’t pull away, and Jim doesn’t panic. In fact, all he feels, is a flutter of excitement building again in his belly. It all feels too good to be true. Maybe he’s dreaming. The reality of this, what they’ve just done, what Harvey’s just told him, feels removed. Unreal. Even now, when he’s still lying naked and relaxed in Harvey’s arms. He can’t quite reconcile this, now, to Harvey’s past. Whispers, against Harvey’s chest. "Harvey? What was your name?"

Jim feels Harvey’s slow intake of breath. His equally slow exhale, a long sigh. "No.” The arm around his shoulders doesn’t withdraw. It tightens, holds him closer. “No, I won't tell you that. Not even you. Especially not you."

"I'm sorry.” Jim closes his eyes. He knows, in his heart, he should stop pushing. But he’s never been good at that. He needs to _know_. “It wasn't my place to ask." He still _wants_ to know. Can sense that Harvey knows it, too.

"I don't want secrets from you. But Jim, if I tell you that, then it'll always be there in the back of your mind, every time you look at me. And it's not me."

Perhaps he doesn’t need to know, after all. Perhaps it’s just his self-sabotaging nature, testing boundaries again. Testing the limit of Harvey’s tolerance. "Forgive me? I'm just... new at this. I need you to help me out."

They’re quiet a moment. Jim listens to slow strum of Harvey’s heartbeat, feels the steady, hypnotic rise and fall of his chest. Breathes in the warm, woody scent of him. When Harvey shifts again, he clings. Hopes his curiosity hasn’t crossed a line, but Harvey just reaches over him again, to rummage in the drawer of the nightstand. Jim risks opening his eyes, and Harvey’s holding something out to him.

"Here. I've got something for you instead. But you understand, I never show this to nobody. It's the one thing I kept."

The photograph is fuzzy, has that yellowish tint to it which announces its vintage. It shows a group of kids, teenagers, four of them crowded onto a pair of sagging couches in a sparse room with graffitied, whitewashed walls. Jim holds it carefully by one creased corner, as if it’s a holy relic. Gazes for a long time. There’s no mistaking. The kid in the left-hand corner of the shot, dressed in a battered black leather biker jacket, looking back over his shoulder with an expression of confrontational amusement. Long, bright red hair spilling down his back.

"You looked like a boy." Jim manages, after a moment. Really, now he’s seen this, he can’t believe Harvey was ever anything but.

Harvey snorts a little humourless laugh. "Funny, that." But when Jim twists around in his arms, leans up to kiss him, slow and soft, he melts right into it, his hand slipping into Jim’s hair.

"You do realise I'm going to have to tell Chandler that you were a teenage hippy?"

This time, his laugh is as warm as his hands, his eyes bright with it. "I think I can live with that."

Jim grazes his lower lip with his teeth. Looks at the photograph again. “He’ll want to know how I know.”

“And what will you tell him?”

“That you showed me a photo.” He hesitates. Tries not to overthink his next words. “When we were in bed? Together?” They’re lying so close, side by side on the pillows, that he has to pull back a little to properly study Harvey’s reaction.

Harvey’s expression is soft. Questioning. He picks Jim’s hand up from where it’s laying on the blanket and twines their fingers together. “I think I can live with that, too.” He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with my self-indulgent smut. I'm hoping to just carry on writing more in this 'verse, now their backstory has been established. Big love to the commenters, you make my day x
> 
> ETA: I've been overthinking the tags on this, because I don't want to reduce Harv to his body parts but I also want this fic to be searchable by anyone wanting fic about a trans guy who's had bottom surgery and is now living a happy, non-disclosing life. So I might edit the tags again in future x

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads this, especially the commenters. It's nice to know I'm not just yelling into the void x


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